


Convergence

by dustyirish



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Break Up, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mention of past murder and violence, Oral Sex, Psychic Abilities, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-05
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-02-11 03:35:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12926496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyirish/pseuds/dustyirish
Summary: Summer, 1984. Hawkins, Indiana.Steve and Nancy are breaking up. Jonathan is breaking down. Will is breaking away. Hopper and Joyce are breaking shower curtains. The new girl in town is breaking laws of scientific convention.And there is something waiting on the horizon that threatens to break them all.





	Convergence

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place the summer after the events of season one. Everything in season one is canonical in this story. After that, things diverge. Wildly. (One exception to canon : for the purposes of the story, I've made it so all of the older kids are headed into their senior year of high school. I needed them together, for reasons that will become clear later.) 
> 
> Quick note about OCs - As a rule, I usually avoid them like the plague, and certainly understand that there are many who dislike reading about them. But this one demanded that I played it as it lay. I hope some of you can find it enjoyable even with the addition.
> 
> There will undoubtedly be more pairings in the future of this, and Eleven will definitely be a factor. I just haven't quite figured out where to work her in yet. 
> 
> &&&&&&&&&

 

 

 

 

Inside my heart is breaking  
My makeup may be flaking  
but my smile still stays on.

~ Queen

 

 

 

 

  
Jonathan glanced over as he drove. Will was quiet and thoughtful in the seat beside him.

Exactly the opposite of what he should be on a day like this.

"So, what are you guys planning to do?"

Will smiled; same old sweet smile, but with a hint of shadow. "Just hang out, I guess."

Jonathan nodded and silence took over again.

Will broke it with a sigh. "I feel bad about Mom, you know? I mean, I want to go, but. It won't be easy for her."

"Mom'll be fine," Jonathan said softly.

They both realized the absurdity of the statement. After all, they both knew what it had taken to get them in this car.

The extended get-together was something the boys had done every summer for years. Three days of going from house to house sleepovers, playing, eating themselves sick. Just being kids. The Byers' home had always been one of the stops. Joyce had welcomed them with smiles and snacks, often joining in the play herself.

Up until this summer.

This summer Joyce had, to put it mildly, flipped her shit. She had refused to let Will take part, refused even to discuss the matter with him.

Jonathan had - surprising even himself - challenged her.

There had been tears (not all of them Joyce's), pleas, and yelling.

Far too much yelling.

Will had retreated to his room, softly closing the door behind him. Music had kicked on and Jonathan had experienced a sick moment of disconnect.

The raised, furious voices were all too familiar, only now his voice had replaced Lonnie's. Jonathan had spent that moment terrified that he was becoming exactly what he had been raging against for most of his life.

He was finally able to convince himself that it was different; he wasn't fighting for himself. He was fighting for Will. Will, who needed to feel, if only for a couple of days, that there wasn't a guillotine hanging over his head.

Joyce had finally given in. Jonathan seriously doubted his arguments had had much to do with it. He suspected, that as scared as she was, the tough, awesome mom part of Joyce Byers had stood up and demanded her little boy back.

She had given in, yes, but she had nearly lost herself in doing it. There had been too many sleepless nights, too many useless doctor's visits, too many memories for it to be any other way.

She had grabbed onto Jonathan as he was heading out the door, hugging him so tightly it hurt, repeating his name like a plea. A few seconds in, her legs had given way and she had sunk to her knees. Jonathan had gone with her, rocking her while she sobbed against his shoulder.

Thank god, Will had already been waiting in the car at that point.

Jonathan had splashed his face with water and made sure Joyce was settled at the kitchen table, cigarette held between jittery fingers, before he tried to leave again.

As he had turned to go, she had reached up and given him one last hug around his waist. Thankfully, that one was something approaching normal. If it had still been that same, desperate clutch, Jonathan probably would have broken down and called everything off himself.

He stopped now in front of the Wheeler's. Will started gathering his stuff.

Jonathan debated running into the house and saying hi to Nancy, but nixed the idea quickly. He was exhausted and out of sorts and had to work in less than thirty minutes.  
  
All of these things were true, but, he had to admit, Steve Harrington's car parked right in front of his was the real deciding factor.

Jonathan nodded towards the back seat. "Don't forget your sleeping bag."

Will grabbed it and got out, headed for his three friends waiting in the yard.

"Hey, Will," Jonathan called, then paused.

There were so many things he wanted to say, but he couldn't think of one that wouldn't make him sound like the worried, overprotective dad he pretty much was.

"Have fun."

  
****

  
Hopper found Joyce in the bathroom on her hands and knees, violently scrubbing the floor around the base of the toilet.

If she was surprised by his presence in the doorway she showed no sign. She spoke without turning.

"Seriously, is it a guy thing, Hopper? Some macho caveman marking territory bullshit?"

He could tell by those couple of sentences that she was tense, angry and frightened - maybe even more than normal.

Hopper was having a bit of an abnormal reaction himself, looking at her crouched there in her old tattered jeans and button-down mom shirt.

He couldn't begin to explain it, but he was sure as hell having it.

"Well?" she demanded.

"I didn't piss on your floor, Joyce," he said, calmly enough.

Other parts of Hopper were currently anything but calm. He shifted uncomfortably.

It was nothing short of ludicrous, but the yellow rubber cleaning gloves covering her hands were somehow getting to him the most. Freud would have a fucking field day.

"Unzip, aim, pee. How hard can it possibly be?", Joyce snapped.

The mild arousal turned to desire flooding through Hopper, sudden and ferocious enough to make him a little insane with it.

"Hard as a rock."

Real goddamn smooth, Hop. Beautiful.

Joyce finally looked back over her shoulder, perplexed. "Hopper? Are you coming on to me?"

Now came the choice that Hopper had so long struggled with. Either retreat out of an abundance of caution - which was what he had been convincing himself was best for months now - or finally go with his gut.

One more glance at the soft swell of Joyce's backside and Hopper decided caution could go take a flying fuck at a rolling doughnut.

"What would you say if I was?"

Joyce snorted. "That your timing is ridiculous." She shot him another look and turned back to her task.

"Yeah? Somehow, it doesn't feel so ridiculous."

He moved from the doorway and crouched behind her, running the backs of his hands slowly along her sides. She let out a shaky, need-filled sigh. He then swooped down and closed his teeth on a denim-covered ass cheek.

The scrub brush clattered to the tiles.

Joyce was definitely on board. If she hadn't been, the brush would have sailed for his skull instead.

He nuzzled her neck, unable to keep himself from grinding softly against her, pushing her perilously close to the open toilet.

"Jesus, Hopper, I'm a mess," she protested, but her fingers scrabbled at his hips to encourage the movement.

"If that's the best excuse you have," he grated out "then I'm gonna go ahead and assume this is happening."

He turned her and gently took her hands, placing them on the edge of the bathtub before reclaiming his place behind her. He cupped her still-clothed breasts, tracing his tongue down her spine.

"Can I at least lose the gloves?" Definite arousal, but now also the slightest hint of amusement.

"I'll have to get back to you on that one. That's the sexiest part."

He caressed her for a few more minutes, nibbling at her earlobe, teasing her nipples through the shirt.

He didn't drag it out too long. They'd had enough waiting.

"Rubber?"

"Pill."

"Kids?"

"Out."

Hopper took her bent over the tub.

There was nothing graceful about it; his gun tossed carelessly into a corner, uniform nearly ripped off, rubber gloves flying to land halfway into the hall.

He left his mark on her neck as she reached back to press encouraging bruises into his thighs.

It didn't last long. Both of them were way too pent up for that.

Hopper came hard, on a chest-deep groan. Joyce was almost eerily quiet except for the softest of cries as she fluttered around him.

Catching his breath, Hopper turned her head to look into her eyes. He saw pleasure, and maybe a bit of contentment. But, behind that, there was still the other shit lurking, waiting to bubble back to the surface.

He was determined to see it gone, that haunted, scared look, if only for a few minutes. And if he had to fuck it away, so be it. He had done far worse for far less important reasons.

Joyce seemed to read his intent and her eyes took on the hint of a challenge.

He leaned up and growled into her ear. "You're nowhere near done, are you?"

She took his hand. He reached into the tub with the other and kicked the shower on, then stood and tugged her in.

He watched the spray rain down on her for a moment then dropped to his knees and brought her to his mouth.

He lapped eagerly, tasting her, tasting himself. Finally, _finally_ tasting the mix of them.

And Joyce was silent no more.

She moaned with every swipe of tongue, keened with every light scraping of teeth.

Her hips thrust wildly, shamelessly grinding against Hopper, using his mouth, his chin, even his beard, anything she could to chase her pleasure.

She raised a leg and hooked a foot around his back, trying for an even better angle. He shifted, tugged the other leg, and then he was somehow balancing her full weight on his upper arms and shoulders while she rode his face.

It was hot as all hell, but Hopper honestly had no idea how he wasn't dropping her.

Her cries took on a pleading tone and he reached a hand carefully up, using his thumb to rub firm circles against her clit while his other fingers teased back along her crack.

She began to shake, her thighs clamping around his head. She flailed out blindly, desperate for something to anchor her as she convulsed, and found only the shower curtain.

There was a ripping sound and one of the rings went zinging off, squarely pegging a rubber duck sitting atop the toilet tank and knocking it into the bowl with a splash.

Hopper barked out a laugh even as Joyce was screaming and coming against his tongue.

He lowered her with shaking arms and propped her against the tiles to recover while he plopped gracelessly onto his ass, water beating down on his head.

Joyce lay back, dazed and gasping for air. Hopper reached out and twined his fingers with hers.

"I'm taking you to the carnival tonight and setting you loose on the milk bottles. They won't know what hit 'em."

She kissed him first.

It was the one thing Hopper had avoided, not sure he could take having to share that level of intimacy with shadow worlds and faceless monsters.

He needn't have worried.

The fear was still in Joyce's eyes, but not in her kiss.

The kiss was all for him.

He pulled her to his chest, where she mumbled against his skin.

"God, I need this to be over. I need my kids back. I can't breathe. I can't breathe anymore, Hop."

He closed his eyes and held on.

"Baby, I can't remember the last time I breathed."

 

**********

  
There was a bird tweeting merrily in the Wheeler's tree.

Steve Harrington had a - mercifully brief - urge to peg the largest rock he could find in its direction.

Instead, he sighed and got into his car, shutting the door numbly behind him.

He glanced in the rearview.

Same eyes, same nose - hair a tad windblown, but otherwise normal. He had just been through hell; how could none of it show on his face?

Steve had gone into the Wheeler house content and secure in his role as Nancy's boyfriend and had come out a confused and very single man.

He was still trying to process exactly how the fuck it had happened.

He guessed it had started with him handing over the concert ticket, although for the life of him, he couldn't make the connection.

Nancy had stared at it, almost in horror. _'God, Steve, just stop putting all this pressure on me! You're asking too much!'_

It was a Stevie Nicks ticket.

Not a subscription to Modern Bride. Not a list of possible baby names.

It was a ticket for _The Wild Heart Tour_ , which Steve had absolutely no desire to attend, (because, seriously) but was prepared to do so without complaint because Nancy would love it.

Or so Steve had stridently thought, right up until about forty-five minutes previously.

He hadn't been hoping for anything, except maybe a smile. What he had gotten was tears and pleas and bullshit.

So much bullshit.

He had loved Nancy a little going into the relationship; he loved her even more now coming out of it.

But somewhere along the way he had lost the will to fight.

What it all came down to, and what Steve couldn't believe he hadn't realized before that very moment, was that he had no hope of competing with the dead. Nancy couldn't forgive him for being there when she had so desperately needed to be somewhere else.

Also, she seemed to be under the impression that Steve was 'subconsciously using her as a buffer against reality'.

The worst part was, Steve couldn't even definitively say she was wrong.

He sighed again, turned the ignition, rolled down the window, let the breeze take the crumpled paper clutched in his hand and floored it.

  
******

Something had gone seriously fucking wrong with Hawkins, Indiana.

Cory Dakota brought the truck to a stop in the overgrown yard and shut off the ignition, silencing Warren Zevon mid-howl.

She hadn't been here for several years, but she remembered it as a happy, laid-back little town. A quiet place with spindly garden plots and trees and friendly, if slightly nosy, neighbors.

All of that was still there, but there was now something dark beneath the normal.

She closed her eyes, trying to get a better read on it. She caught brief flashes of a strange red sky, children's frightened voices, and a bizarre chattering sound that, even though she couldn't begin to identify it, sent a shiver down her spine.

As always, only a glimpse. Not enough to tell what was going on, but just enough to know she didn't want the full view.

No matter what else Hawkins was, it was now also home.

She turned and glanced out the window behind her. Her entire life took up less than half the bed of a Chevy pickup. Seven or eight tattered boxes, filled with what she could salvage from the house and what she had managed to accumulate at various thrift stores along her rambling journey between Iowa and here.

It was all she owned in the world; that and this place, her grandmother's final gift.

Cory snatched up her pack of Marlboros from the dash and the boombox from the passenger seat. Gran may have been dead for going on two months, but her coffee stores would last well into the next millennium.

The rest could wait.

After a moment of deliberation, Cory also left the shotgun where it was, tucked behind the seat. Gran had been a gentle soul, and would forgive Cory everything else. But bringing a symbol of war into what Doreen Sanders had lovingly dubbed 'Woodstock, With Less Mud' would be tantamount to high treason.

As Cory hopped out of the truck she caught a faint whiff of smoke and wasn't sure if it had permeated into the boxes or was only the ghost of a memory.

The hell of it was, the killer hadn't set the fire.

Instead, it had been courtesy of history's most ironically-timed furnace explosion, some kind of cosmic middle finger, destroying what few clues had been left in his wake.

The police had summoned the full arson squad. They sifted through the debris, backs bent, searching for traces of accelerants.

Cory had known it was pointless, even while running barefoot down the street in her Ramones nightshirt, making a mad dash back to the life that was now nothing but blood and ashes.

In her mind's eye she had seen the shape of him leaving. She had seen the furnace ready to blow. She had seen her parents' abused, smoldering bodies.

As usual, she had seen none of it when it would have made a difference.


End file.
